


Interlude

by Val_Creative



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Banter, Canon - TV, Cocktail Party, Daemons, Everyone Is Alive, F/F, Femslash, Fix-It of Sorts, Flirting, Introspection, Mildly Dubious Consent, Missing Scene, Nudity, Queer Character, Season/Series 01, Sexual Content, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-29 00:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: “You seem faint,” Marisa coos. She wraps an arm gently round Adèle, leading her. “Come. Walk with me.”
Relationships: Marisa Coulter/Adèle Starminster, Marisa Coulter/Other(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> I don't like what they did to Adèle in Episode 2. So she gets to live AND have an orgasm.

*

Marisa Coulter's parlour-room fills with the scent of freshly trimmed roses and cigarillos.

Happy faces.

That's just how she likes it.

Everything must be just as it needs to be. Bright. Comfortable. Soft. Decadent.

She's not above the idea of simple pleasures, no. But powerful and respected women deserve what they earn. Just as any man. Marisa has had a few, here and there — women _and_ men. The men are far more _simple_, eager to torment and taste and touch what they long for, shoving their hideous, meaty parts into her. Complimenting Marisa's beauty with hollow voices.

But, then, she directs her attention to the female Scholars with a little more enthusiasm. Brides of the Queen's soldiers. Wives of counts and lords and barons, and they melt gleefully in their pleasure against Marisa's lips and her teasing, careful fingers.

Different hints of perfume trails off her occasionally. She remembers hearing Lyra complain about the odour of heat and metal, and lilacs from Dame Hannah, while still visiting in Jordan College. The older, greying woman did beg so _sweetly_ for Marisa's kisses, squirming under her naked body and a long, alabaster hand pinning Dame Hannah's throat down to the crimson sheets.

They all feign their affections right as the lanterns go on. Such a _pity_.

A young journalist has found her way into Marisa's golden and perfect world. Lovely, dark eyes. Intelligent. Fearful though, as she cowers visibly under Carlo Boreal's silent, harsh gaze, her butterfly daemon sinking in the air.

"You seem faint," Marisa coos. She wraps her arm gently to the other woman's, leading her out. "Come. Walk with me."

As soon as they're out of sight, Adèle Starminster regains her nerve. "What are you going to do to me?"

Marisa doesn't falter, beaming a smile like cold, glittering tungsten.

_"It depends on why you are here…"_

The threat doesn't go unnoticed. She watches as Adèle's butterfly retreats heavily onto her shoulder. "Research," the other woman lies, quite boldly. "I'm doing an article on those who were familiar with the string of residential bombings using Danish oil."

"I see," Marisa hums, walking them back towards her quarters. "And it required sneaking yourself into my cocktail party without invitation?"

"I apologise, Mrs. Coulter."

"Marisa, my dear. Call me Marisa."

They linger into the darkened room, with the golden, ferocious monkey inspecting the ventilation grates and switching on the lights before hobbling out. "Y-Yes, of course," Adèle stutters, dazed. She murmurs hastily to herself as Marisa's hand suddenly cups to her face, her thumb stroking thoughtfully over Adèle's flush-hot, brown skin.

"Should I get you some water?" she asks. "You're trembling."

"U-uhm. I'm alright."

"Good. Now, back on the subject at hand—I can't have you running about, harassing my guests or my assistant for any longer. I've taken in Lyra during a stressful time in her life. Her head has been filled with horrible, childish fantasies and make-believe and she would do well to not hear silly stories as I am moulding her into the woman she's destined to become. You must understand."

"You treat her like your daughter…" Adèle says, laughing and quickly hushes up as something _sinister_ flashes in Marisa's eyes.

"I do, don't I? Well, you can't help your heart when it wishes to do a kindness. As I am doing with you." She clasps Adèle's hands, "You're free to leave, Ms. Starminster—but on the promise that you _will not_ return to my home or speak to Lyra again."

"I promise."

"Or you shall find yourself with a worry far greater than making your deadlines."

Adèle's expression tightens.

Marisa lets out a cheerful, low noise, releasing her and turning herself around. "Would you mind?" she says, motioning gracefully to the sparkling, emerald fabric. "I must change into another and I'm afraid I cannot reach…"

Not her subtlest manner of doing this, but the other woman does respond accordingly, nodding.

"Oh…" Adèle steps forward, clearing her throat and unzipping the lowcut back of her evening gown. Marisa delicately slides off the rest of it, wordlessly, until the fabric crumples at her heels. She gazes over her shoulder coyly, laughing quietly as Adèle gulps. "_Oh_…"

A pretty, little thing—_a butterfly_. Vainglorious. Instinctive. Adèle flutters against Marisa's hand, her cunt sopping-wet. They're a heartbeat-pace, marked in lipstick and saliva and other warm, copious fluids gleaming between their opened thighs.

That's just how she likes it.

Adèle sleeps restlessly onto a pillow, her butterfly daemon fluttering his wings rhythmically with each of her inhales.

With a frowning, contemplative look, Marisa ties on a robe, peering into the hallway. The cocktail party still happy and loud. She clicks her tongue at her monkey daemon hunching over, terrified by her show of unexplained, raging panic.

_Where is Lyra?_

*


End file.
